


Small Steps

by sorrowfulcheese



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-21
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2019-01-01 04:53:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12149028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sorrowfulcheese/pseuds/sorrowfulcheese
Summary: Tony can't sleep. Bucky can't sleep. In the early morning hours at the Stark Tower, their paths cross for more or less the first time.





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> MCU a/u in which the events of Civil War did not play out. Random Winteriron bits, following (more or less) a giant prompt list that gwyllgi tossed my way (thank you!). I promise nothing in re: quality or quantity, just that I will do my best :)

    When he'd learned that there was video of the procedure—ancient, half-rotted acetate film, that had been only recently digitised—he'd gone to great lengths to get a copy. He'd waited until everyone else had retired for the evening before he’d asked JARVIS to play it for him on one of the monitors in his workshop; no sense letting the others know. They wouldn't understand his interest.  
  
    How had the cybernetic arm been attached? How had Hydra’s scientists prevented rejection? How had they made it function so completely like a real arm, with a real hand, with fingers demonstrating such fine motor skills, using the technology they'd had back then? The film was grainy and old, scratched in places, and it sounded like everything was underwater. Most of the accompanying hard copy records had been destroyed, so these shitty, grainy recordings were all he had.  
  
    Tony shook the little bag in his left hand. Almost gone. He tipped it to his lips, tossed back the remaining dried açai berries and chewed thoughtfully. "Back up, JARVIS," he said around his mouthful. "I want to see that again."  
  
    "From which point, sir?"  
  
    "Mm." Tony swallowed. "Just after the amputation. I want to see the actual replacement. How they attached—" The video reversed rapidly and paused at a point just before the metal arm was brought into view. "Yeah, that's it. Play it back slow, and zoom in. I want to be able to see the details." _Morbid_ , he accused himself, but it wasn't really. That they had severed the remains of Barnes' left arm in the roughshod way that they had, but still had managed to get the metallic arm fused and functioning, without killing the man via blood loss or sepsis, that was amazing. He supposed Zola's experiments prior had something to do with it. Steve recovered fast after injury, too, after all.  
  
    But Steve's augmentation had taken place in a sterile facility, not some dank and dark cellar. And Steve had agreed to it.  
  
    "I'm afraid this is as clear an image as I can extract from the footage, without additional distortion," JARVIS advised him apologetically. "The original film was greatly degraded before it was digitised."  
  
    "It’s fine, JARVIS," Tony assured him. "Thanks." He leaned forward to watch, eyes narrowed. The entire joint had been replaced with metal, and even some of the tendons replaced with something flexible—he couldn't quite make out what substance it was. Some form of plastic, he supposed. He made a mental note to look into that.  
  
    The surgery itself had taken hours in real time, and by the time Tony was done re-watching it in slow motion and sat back in his chair, he noted that the sun was just threatening to peek over the horizon.  
  
    "Look at that," he murmured. "What's on the schedule for today, JARVIS?"  
  
    "Your schedule is clear today, sir," JARVIS replied mildly. "As you had previously requested."  
  
    "Excellent." He stood and stretched, tried to ignore the popping sounds from his shoulders and his spine and his knees. He needed some coffee, and he needed some breakfast, and he needed to get back to work.  
  
    With a yawn he padded in the direction of the kitchen.

* * *

 

  
    He didn't sleep well, hadn't since—how long had it been? He couldn't remember a time when he'd slept well. It was worse at night when there were shadows everywhere. Even in Bucharest, where no one had known him, he'd lain awake night after night, waiting for approaching footsteps, waiting for the glint of a sniper's scope in the distance, the smell of gun oil, the sensation of a bullet piercing his skin—or, worse, a needle that meant he wouldn't die when he went down.  
  
    Perhaps he didn’t sleep well because he had been kept asleep for such long stretches of time. He needed to be awake, to live and experience what he’d missed.  
  
    He slid out of the warm and comfortable bed (perhaps warm and comfortable was the problem?) and stood, looked around the dark room. He located his clothes and dressed in silence, opened the bedroom door and paused, peered to the left and to the right.  
  
    The hall was empty. He stepped out.  
  
    “Good morning, sir,” JARVIS greeted him gently.  
  
    “JARVIS,” Bucky murmured. “Good morning.” He rather appreciated the disembodied presence, now that he’d become accustomed to it. It was almost like having a companion to walk the Tower's dimly-lit corridors in the pre-dawn, before anyone else was up.  
  
    He wondered, not for the first time nor the last, if JARVIS had been instructed to monitor his activities. He supposed that would be best for the others’ peace of mind. Steve vouched for him, the stubborn ass, but the others understandably didn’t trust him.  
  
    For now, he was safe here, and being monitored was very low on his list of concerns.  
  
    He paused as he heard a whirring sound, something strange and familiar at the same time—  
  
     _—someone is making a milkshake._  
  
    He stared into middle distance a moment. _Milkshake._ He remembered them—sweet and creamy and cold. He recalled, just barely, sharing one with someone—a girl, whose face he could not recall, whose name he may never have known.  
  
    Bucky blinked, shook his head, and looked up. “Hey,” he said quietly. “JARVIS?”  
  
    “How may I assist you, sir?”

    “Is there—“ He hesitated. “Where’s that sound coming from?”  
  
    “You’ll have to be more specific, sir,” JARVIS told him. “Which sound?”  
  
    He closed his eyes and listened; the sound had stopped. He looked up again. “It was a whirring sound. Like something—like a mixer. Or maybe—a drill?”  
  
    “It is most likely emanating from the kitchen,” JARVIS said, “as Mr Stark’s workshops are several floors below your current location and it is doubtful the sound of a drill would be heard up here.”  
  
    Bucky nodded, thoughtful. “Thanks,” he said. He took a moment to orient himself, then made his way purposefully to the kitchen. There he stopped in the doorway; Tony Stark leaned over the sink, his sleeves pushed up as he fiddled with something in the sink. The whirring, grinding sound resumed and Tony swore, muttered under his breath, turned on the tap and continued to glare at the sink while water gurgled into the drain.  
  
    He was about to slink away when Tony turned his head, just slightly, to look at him over one shoulder. "You gonna come in, or are you enjoying the show?"  
  
    Bucky opened his mouth, shook his head, closed his mouth. "I—" Red crept up his cheeks. "Sorry," he murmured.  
  
    "Unless you're the idiot who put this shit in the Disposall," Tony said, "you got nothing to be sorry about."  
  
    Bucky was sure that was not at all true. Tony knew, didn't he? He did. He had to. Tony knew everything. What he didn't know he could figure out. Steve had told him that much. Said it made Tony a massive pain in the ass.  
  
    "So," Tony went on, as he turned off the tap and dried his hands on a nearby tea towel. “You an early riser, or did you just not get any sleep?”  
  
    “No sleep,” Bucky replied, cautious.  
  
    “Me either.” Tony leaned back on the counter, and his gaze swept over Bucky from head to toe, paused momentarily on his left arm. Bucky was grateful for the long sleeves of his sweater. Brown eyes looked back up at his face and Tony’s mouth twitched slightly. It was a tic that usually preceded a long-winded explanation, or a barrage of questions. It had never been directed at _him_ before, and it made him suddenly uneasy.  
  
    But Tony only gestured to one side of the kitchen. “I'm about to put coffee on," he said. "I came in here to get it started only to find the drains clogged when I tried to empty the reservoir."  
  
    “I wanted a milkshake,” Bucky said without thinking, and his cheeks reddened again. _What the hell, Barnes?_ He tensed, ready to bolt.  
      
    Tony was unfazed. “Unorthodox choice for the morning,” he noted without apparent judgment. “I’m sure we can work something out. JARVIS, do we have ingredients for a milkshake?” Without waiting for a reply, he pushed away from the counter and padded quietly to the gleaming steel refrigerator, opened one of the doors and scanned its contents.  
  
    “I believe that ice cream is wanting, sir,” JARVIS noted quietly.  
  
    “Ice cream,” Tony said thoughtfully. “Put that on the list, then.”  
  
    “Of course, sir.”  
  
    “No,” Bucky protested. "Coffee's fine. I just—I heard—" How to explain that a sound from a thousand lives ago had made him nostalgic?  
  
    Tony swung shut the refrigerator door, turned to face him, absently scratched his belly through his shirt. He shrugged. “Man wants a milkshake, he should be able to have one.” He stepped toward the coffee machine, never taking his eyes off Bucky’s face. “You can come into the kitchen, you know. You don’t have to stand there in the doorway. I don’t bite.” At last he looked away, fussed with the coffee machine. Bucky had never before seen it started, craned his neck to watch what Tony was doing. He had really come to enjoy coffee that didn't come from a percolator. “Without permission, anyway," Tony went on, and turned to lean against the counter once more.  
  
    It took Bucky a moment to parse that last part, and he flushed. "I shouldn't be here," he said.  
  
    "Why not?" Tony folded his arms. "Did you think we brought you here so you could stay in your room all day and skulk about the halls at night?"  
  
    Bucky licked his lower lip, inhaled. "No, I just meant—"  
  
    The hairs on the back of Bucky’s neck prickled in warning. He spun to see  
  
     _Romanova, Natalia Alianovna_  
  
    He clenched his jaw, moved to one side of the doorway. She was just Natasha, here. And she said it wrong, _Romanov_. A man's name. But things were different, here and now. Maybe now it didn't matter. Maybe it only didn't matter to her. How long ago had it been? She was practically a child.  
  
    Her gaze swept over him, assessing, dismissing, and she walked purposefully past him into the kitchen. "Tony," she said quietly.  
  
    "Nat." Tony returned the greeting and moved only slightly as Natasha nudged him away from the coffee machine. His eyes lifted once more to Bucky's face.  
  
    Bucky couldn't help but watch as Natasha filled an overlarge mug with coffee from the glass carafe, spooned rather a lot of sugar into it, and stirred thoughtfully before she sipped. "There it is," she said with a small smile. "You make terrible coffee, Tony."  
  
    "Don't look at me," Tony said, and grinned at Bucky. "The machine makes the coffee. I just clean the machine out every morning since nobody else does."  
  
    She sipped again from the mug. "You drink too much of it," she declared. "You're immune to how bad it is."  
  
    "Well," Tony said. "I'm just the one who, you know, keeps a roof over our heads." He shrugged one shoulder. "Don't have time to learn the ways of a barista."  
  
    Natasha's eye-roll was deceiving. To anyone else, it was a friendly, teasing gesture. But there was a tension in her face, a flicker in her gaze. Always alert, always planning. It was how the best agents stayed alive. She moved fluidly away from the coffee machine, circled the kitchen island and once again slid past Bucky. She disappeared down the corridor.  
  
    "As I said," Tony spoke up, "come in. You want something to eat?"  
  
    "I should go," Bucky said. "The others will be here soon."  
  
    "Others who?" Bucky gestured with his right hand, up and around, a perfect circle. Tony nodded, thoughtful. "Yeah, no, you live here too, you have just as much right to have breakfast—" He frowned slightly. "Come to think of it, I'm not sure I've ever seen you eat. Do you eat?"  
  
    Bucky stared. "I eat."  
  
    "I don't believe you," Tony informed him. "JARVIS, does Sergeant Barnes eat?"  
  
    After an infinitessimal pause, JARVIS said, "He does eat, sir."  
  
    Tony's eyes locked on Bucky's. "What does he eat? I'm interested in his preferences. I mean, besides milkshakes in the morning."  
  
    "Perhaps," JARVIS said with a surprising hint of delicacy, "Sergeant Barnes wishes to speak for himself, sir?"  
  
    "Either way," Tony said, and a flash of humour made his brown eyes sparkle. The look reminded Bucky so much of Steve, and for a moment he was thrust into the midst of a memory, a far-off moment, sharing lunch with Steve at school  
  
     _tiny asthmatic Steve_  
  
_Семнадцать_  
  
    Bucky's chest tightened. He tried to swallow; his dry tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. Soft darkness closed in around him and he could not breathe, could not see. His lungs burned; his heart slammed against his ribs, too hard, too fast—

* * *

  
    Tony's smile faded.  
  
     _Shit._  
  
    Barnes swayed where he stood, his eyes wide and glassy as he tried to swallow. His hands were tight fists, the knuckles on his right white as the floor.  
  
     _Shit. Fuck._  
  
_This is your fault, you know._  
  
_Everything is my fault,_ Tony reminded himself harshly. _Add it to the tab._  
  
    "JARVIS," he said swiftly, "no one else comes in here, got it?"  
  
    "Yes, sir," JARVIS replied, and though Tony could hear nothing, he knew JARVIS would redirect anyone attempting to reach the kitchen, with gentle and apologetic explanations and firm laser barriers.  
  
    He moved to stand in front of Barnes, out of arms' reach. "Hey," he said. "You need to sit down?" Barnes's head jerked slightly in response, but Tony could not determine if it was a positive motion. "Okay, the floor's solid if you need to sit right now. No one's going to come in here, understand? I promise you, JARVIS is keeping everyone out, so it's just you and me."  
  
    "I can't breathe," Barnes whispered through his teeth.  
  
    Tony nodded. "I know it feels like you can't, but I promise you that you can. Look at me here." He gestured between Barnes' eyes and his own. "We're gonna breathe together, okay? You got me?" Barnes made another jerky motion with his head, but he focused on Tony. "Okay, good, good. Now, in through your nose. Count of four, okay? One, two, three, four—then out through your mouth, one, two, three, four. Just like that. Now, do it with me." Tony inhaled, holding up his fingers to show the count, and exhaled, doing the same thing. He was relieved when Barnes began to breathe, his eyes locked on Tony's hand. His breaths weren't deep, but they began to grow steadier, and some colour returned to his face.  
  
    "I need to sit."  
  
    "Yep. You want a chair, or the floor?"  
  
    Barnes sank to the floor, cross-legged, without a word, and leaned back to rest against the door frame.  
  
    "Good enough," Tony said. "You keep breathing."  He spun and trotted to the refrigerator, snatched out a bottle of water and returned to sit on the floor, facing Barnes. He twisted off the cap and held out the bottle. "Have some water, okay? It'll help. Just have a couple of sips."  
  
    Barnes stared at him a moment, and he lifted his trembling right hand. Tony moved just close enough to put the bottle into the shaking fingers and did not let go until he was sure Barnes' grip was secure.  
  
    "Just a couple of sips, okay?" Tony repeated. Barnes nodded, then, lifted the bottle to his mouth and let a little water spill into his mouth. He swallowed it, took a second mouthful, then watched Tony as though awaiting further instruction.  
  
     _Fuck if I know, buddy,_ Tony thought, rueful. _Never anyone around when it happens to me._  
  
    "Keep breathing," Tony reminded him. "You want to stay here a bit?" Barnes nodded again. He was looking better, at least. "That's fine," Tony went on. "No one else is gonna come in until you give the word."  
  
    Barnes blinked slowly, thoughtful. "I don't really want to see anyone."  
  
    "Not a problem," Tony assured him. "It's a big complex, easy enough to avoid people, right?" He flashed a grin. "Makes it easier on everyone when they don't have to see me, either."  
  
    That elicited a weak puff of air that Tony interpreted as a chuckle. "But it's your house," Barnes murmured.  
  
    "I own the building, yes," Tony said. "That doesn't mean everyone living here likes me." He managed a quick smile. "Or that I like everyone who lives here. Drink your water."  
  
    Obediently, Barnes raised the bottle to his lips and drank, eyes locked on Tony's as he swallowed half the remaining water. He exhaled, licked his lips. "Why do you let them live here, then?"  
  
    Tony shrugged. “Everyone’s gotta live somewhere.” He drew up his knees, wrapped his arms loosely around them. “Even superheroes.” He chewed his lower lip a moment. “Outside the suit, I’m just some guy who has a lot of money, and wants to do good. Leave a legacy better than the one my father left me. I’m not getting younger, right? But money doesn’t age, doesn’t get sprained ankles or torn ligaments or get just plain too old for that shit. So I do what I can, and everyone gets a place to stay, food to eat, and a handyman to fix the garbage disposal when someone else puts coffee grounds or half a bunch of celery or a fork into it.” He allowed himself a wry smile. “I mean, seriously, a damn fork. Once I’m gone, they can use the money to hire someone else to fix the appliances. Until then, I make myself useful.”  
  
    Barnes seemed to mull this over, and nodded slowly. “You don’t hire someone to do it?”  
  
    “I don’t want strangers in my home, if I can help it, and especially not playing with my toys.” He shrugged again. “I like doing it. Keeps me busy. You want more water?”  
  
    Barnes looked down at the bottle in his hand, tipped it up and drank what was left. “I—don’t think so,” he said, hesitant. “I’m—“ He blinked rapidly. “I’m all right now. I’m sorry for messing up your morning.” He pushed himself up, cautiously, and stood straight. He was clearly not a hundred percent, but he was breathing, at least, and moving.  
  
    “Don’t even worry about it,” Tony assured him as he stood as well. “Morning's far from over. You want some breakfast?”  
  
    “No. I think I’ll just go to my room. If that’s okay.”  
  
    “That’s not my decision,” Tony said firmly. “That’s yours. JARVIS, make a hole for Sergeant Barnes, please. No interaction.”  
  
    “The way is clear, sir,” JARVIS responded. “Shall I permit the others into the kitchen, now?”  
  
    “Not until he’s reached his room.”  
  
    “As you wish, sir.”  
  
    Tony returned his attention to Barnes. “Sarge, you need anything, let JARVIS know, yeah?”  
  
    “Bucky,” was the quiet reply.  
  
    Tony frowned. “Hm?”  
  
    “You don’t have to call me Sergeant,” Barnes told him. “I’m not—I’m not a soldier anymore. Not really.” He took a deep breath. “My name is Bucky.”  
  
    “Fair enough,” Tony said with a nod. “Bucky.”  
  
    Bucky nodded, inhaled, and turned away with a sigh. He made no sound as he walked, Tony realised, and after a moment when he peeked down the hall there was no sign that Bucky had ever been there.  
  
    “JARVIS,” he said quietly, “let me know when Ser—“ He paused. “When _Bucky_ gets to his room.”  
  
    “He is in his room and the door is securely locked, sir,” JARVIS responded immediately.  
  
    “All right.” He stretched, returned his attention to the coffee maker. He poured himself a mug and sipped, made a face. “I do not make bad coffee,” he murmured.  
  
    “Shall I permit the others to enter the kitchen now, sir?” JARVIS prompted him.  
  
    “Mm.” Tony considered a moment, sipped his coffee again. “Let them wait. I’m gonna make some waffles, and when I’m done, let them in.” With amusement he set down his coffee and began to round up the ingredients for waffles.


	2. Complicated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Uneasy about his place in the world, and more so about his place in the microcosm of the Avengers compound, Bucky heads in search of—answers? Truth? Validation?

     "You could talk to Sam, you know."  
  
     It was not the first time Steve had made the suggestion. It would probably not be the last. Bucky nodded slowly. "You've said so," he replied, and turned his coffee mug between his hands on the table. "But I don't think–" He pressed his lips together. "I don't think that would be a good idea."  
  
     "It doesn't have to be him," Steve added. "There are lots of other services at the VA centre, other–"  
  
     "No," Bucky said, and Steve fell silent. Together they nursed their coffees and watched the people around them, busy with work and shopping and simply strolling freely about without a real care in the world. No one recognised either of them–or if they did, they gave no sign of it. It felt safe to be unknown, unnoticed.  
  
     "Are you feeling all right, though?" Steve asked, softer this time.  
  
     Bucky turned his cup again. "It's not the first time it's happened."  
  
    "How often do you get them?"  
  
    "I don't actually count them," Bucky said drily. "Less than I used to. Probably more than the average person."  
  
    "The average person hasn't been through what you've been through."  
  
    Bucky shrugged, drained the last of his coffee from his mug and set it down, pushed it to the middle of the table. He'd survived it, hadn't he? A panic attack now and again wasn't going to kill him. It certainly _felt_ like it might, when it was happening.  
    
    "What have you got planned for this afternoon?"  
  
    Bucky lifted his head and had to bite down on his amusement at Steve's artificially casual expression. Steve had two flaws, Bucky mused; one of them was that he was too stubborn for his own good. The other was that he cared too damn much. About everybody, everything. It had to hurt him. It was easier, so much easier not to feel anything at all. It was terrifying to think about, but it was so much easier.  
  
    Bucky shook his head. "I think," he said, "I'm going to go back, do some reading. I got a lot of catching up to do."  
  
    Steve chuckled at that. "Yeah, you do. Let me know if you need any suggestions. I've been catching up myself."  
  
    Bucky grinned back. "Well, you've got a head start on me, so I'd better get at it. What are you gonna do?"  
  
    "Gonna sit here a bit," Steve said with a gentle smile. "See you later?"  
  
    Bucky nodded, stood and carefully pushed his chair in, turned and headed out of the cafe, Steve's eyes boring holes in his back.

* * *

 

  
   Back at the compound he hung his jacket and cap on the back of his bedroom door. After a moment's consideration he pulled off his hooded sweater and folded it, set it at the foot of his bed. He quelled the brief anxiety that always came with feeling exposed–as though the sweater somehow had the ability to hide him, to protect him.  
  
    "It's just a sweater," he reminded himself. "You're safe in here."  
  
    He glanced around the room, suddenly restless. He hadn't lied to Steve; he really did have reading to do. He simply didn't feel like doing it right now.  
  
    Bucky looked up at the ceiling. "JARVIS," he said quietly.  
  
    "How may I be of assistance, sir?"  
  
    "Where's, ah–" He pursed his lips. "Where's Tony?"  
  
    "Mr Stark is in his workshop. Would you like directions?"  
  
    Bucky struggled a moment with the answer. "Yes," he said at last. "Thanks."  
  
    JARVIS guided him quietly through a perplexing maze of corridors and stairs. Before long Bucky could feel the buzz of some insane beat through the floor, and shortly thereafter he could hear the noise.  
  
    Tony listened to the most god-awful music. If one could call it music. Mostly it just set Bucky's teeth on edge.  
  
    "Thanks, JARVIS," Bucky said. "I think I can take it from here."  
  
    "Let me know if I can be of further assistance, sir."  
      
    "Yeah. Thanks again."  
  
    He made his way down one last set of stairs and into the midst of the pounding, grinding racket.  
  
    Tony's workshop was full of equipment, tools, workspaces, all neatly and conveniently arranged–all but one, and there Tony perched on a stool, examining something through a magnifying lamp as he tweaked it with very fine tools, calm and unshaken by his music. Tiny components and more fine tools lay scattered over the table, where they had been dropped when no longer needed.  
  
    Bucky held still just inside the doorway, unsure if Tony could hear his approach over the music, suddenly uneasy because how was he supposed to get his attention, and if he did, how could he say what he needed to say without seeming like a threat or, worse, insane?  
  
    "JARVIS told me you were coming down," Tony said, just audible over the music. "You can come in. If I didn't want you here, he wouldn't have brought you."  
  
    "Oh."  
  
    _say something_  
  
    "I can come another time if you're busy."  
  
    _not that_  
  
    "If I was," Tony reiterated, "JARVIS wouldn't have brought you down here." He lifted his head and reached out to shut off the magnifying lamp, stretched his neck on either side and spun slowly on the stool to face him. He held up what he'd been working on and instinctively Bucky stepped closer to see it. It was a man's watch, very old, and it looked very expensive. "My great-grandfather's," Tony went on. "I like to maintain it. Precision parts, precision timing, little coils and gears and springs." He flashed a half-smile.  
  
   "You don't like the electric ones?" Bucky wondered, surprised.

  
    "Of course I do. I have dozens. But I don't wear this one. I just like to have it, and keep it running."  
  
    Bucky stared at him a moment.  
  
    _say something_  
  
    He pointed at the ceiling. "Can you turn that off?"  
  
    "Sure." Tony set the watch down, reached for a remote, waved it in the air; the workshop fell silent, though Bucky's ears still rang. "Not a fan of Atomkraft, huh?"  
  
    "Is that what it's called?"  
  
    "That's the band, yeah."  
  
    Bucky shifted his weight. "Then no, not a fan."  
  
    Tony chuckled, tossed aside the remote and stood to face him. "Fair enough." He sobered. "What brings you down here, then?"  
  
    _he knows he already knows just say it_  
  
    Bucky took a deep breath.  
  
    "Come and sit down," Tony suggested, and slipped past him with a beckoning hand. "Want a drink?" Bucky turned to watch as Tony crossed the room, paused to grab a bottle from a low cupboard, and vanished behind a half-wall. "Come on," Tony called, and Bucky moved in that direction.  
  
    One area of the workshop had been set up like a little living room, with a couch and coffee table and a large television screen. Other bits of equipment Bucky did not recognise seemed to be attached to the television with varying thickness of cable. Tony had dropped down on the couch, and now opened the bottle and poured two shot glasses full of what smelled like whiskey. "Sit," Tony said, and indicated the other end of the couch, with the bottle still in his hand. He picked up one of the shot glasses with his free hand, tossed it back and then refilled it. He thrust the second glass in the direction he'd told Bucky to sit.  
  
    Bucky sat, gingerly, and eyed the glass a moment.  
  
    "I've already drunk some," Tony assured him. "It's safe."  
  
    "No, I'm not worried about that." He picked up the shot glass, swallowed its contents, and gasped as it burned beautifully from his tongue to his belly and then spread warmth all the way out to his toes.  
  
    "Good, yeah?" Tony said. Bucky nodded, and held out his glass. Tony drank his second shot, refilled their glasses. "Listen," he said.  
  
    _here it comes he knows and he_  
  
    "In Japan," Tony went on, "there's etiquette around drinking." They both drank again. "You don't refuse to drink with people you know, because people are ostensibly more honest when they're drunk, and if you don't have anything to hide, you aren't afraid of what you might say to them when you're drunk." He refilled their glasses, set the bottle down, looked up at Bucky. "And no matter what happens or what's said while drinking, once sober, it never happened." He picked up his glass, and Bucky did the same; as they drank, Bucky kept his eyes on Tony's.  
  
    He swallowed and licked his lips, set down his glass. "So, you're giving me good whiskey to get me to talk? About what?"  
  
    Tony shook his head, refilled their glasses. "Whatever you want. Preferably whatever's on your mind when you look at me like you need to say something to me, but don't actually say it."  
  
    "I've been doing that?" A slight flush rose on his cheeks that had nothing to do with the warmth of the whiskey.  
  
    Tony exhaled, a short laugh. "Every time you look at me. So, here we are drinking, until we've had enough that you feel you can say what it is you need to tell me, and in the morning it'll be effectively forgotten. Deal?" He held up his glass, questioning. Bucky looked at it a moment, lifted his own glass, and held it a hand's breadth away from Tony's.  
  
    "You too, though, right?"  
  
    Tony's eyebrows rose. "Me too, what?"  
  
    "You gotta say anything you need to say."  
  
    That elicited a genuine chuckle. "Yeah, okay. Deal?" Tony gestured again with his glass, and Bucky touched it with his own. They both tossed back their drinks.  
  
    "So," Tony said, "What do you need to tell me?"  
  
    "Ask you," Bucky corrected him, while Tony once more filled both glasses.  
  
    "Ask me."  
  
    "Why–" He inhaled deeply. "You know what I did, right?"  
  
    Tony watched him a moment, chewed the insides of his lips. "I know you were the Winter Soldier, yeah."  
  
    Bucky inhaled and exhaled to steady himself. "You know what I did."  
  
    Tony gulped back his shot, refilled the glass, and looked into Bucky's eyes. "You killed my mom," he said. "Yeah. I know."  
  
    "Your father too," Bucky said. A solid ball of get the hell out of here started pinging around inside his skull.  
  
    "Someone else would have done it sooner or later," Tony said tightly. "I know this. This is why you came down here? To tell me this?" His eyes were fathomless, darker than usual, and Bucky felt uneasily as though if he was not careful, he would be consumed by something lurking just behind them. His fingers tightened around his shot glass.  
  
    "No," he said.  
  
    Tony watched him a moment longer, then gestured to Bucky's glass with the bottle. "Drink," he said. They both drank and Tony refilled the glasses. Bucky's head was starting to spin a little; he could handle his liquor, no problem, but this was something else. "So tell me what you need to tell me," Tony said.  
  
    "Ask you," Bucky repeated, and his own voice seemed to be coming from a distance.  
  
    "Ask," Tony snapped.  
  
    "Why am I here," Bucky responded, "when you know this? Why wouldn't you just turn me over to the authorities? Or kill me yourself?"  
  
    Tony stared at him again, his eyes once more unreadably dark. "Drink," he whispered hoarsely, and tossed back his shot, then poured himself another and drank that too. "Drink,", he repeated, and pointed at Bucky's glass.  
  
   Bucky drank obediently, and waited.  
  
    Tony swallowed another shot and cleared his throat, looked down at the empty glass. "It's complicated," he said softly. Bucky said nothing. Tony poured himself another shot, contemplated it for a full minute, then tossed it back and exhaled.  
  
    "My _father_ ," he said, the word spoken through clenched teeth, "was a warmonger. He believed in the best defense being a good offense. He designed and unleashed weapons on the world that have caused and that continue to cause devastation and death to innocent people. He raised me the same way. He wanted a better world for me but the only way he could see to do it was through domination." He shook his head, ran his hands through his hair, fell back against the couch and stared up at the ceiling.  
  
    "I let other people do the hard work," he went on. "I got my education, technically worked, made a lot of things and spent a lot of money on just fucking around. Booze and girls, mostly." He fell silent a moment, folded his hands over his belly. "Clothes, cars. Toys." He sighed again. "Then I found out that in my name, our own American soldiers were being killed by American weapons, Stark weapons. Collateral damage." He was silent again for several minutes.  
  
    Bucky watched his face in profile: fine features, well proportioned; hair immaculately groomed for the appearance of being casually perfect. Lines around his eyes and mouth gave away less about his age and more about how often he smiled.  
  
    "People are not collateral," Tony continued at last, softer. "I had been lied to and manipulated for years by someone I'd trusted. He arranged to have me attacked and murdered and to pin it on people who had no idea what was going on. He stole my company from me, disgraced me in the public eye. He tried to kill me." He turned his head to look at Bucky. "You know all this?"  
  
    "Some," Bucky admitted, startled from his contemplation.  
  
    "Well, then," Tony said. "You know why you're here."  
  
    Bucky frowned. "No."  
  
   Tony snorted, looked up once more at the ceiling. "If an asshole like me can get a second chance," he said, "there's no reason someone like you, who didn't ask for what he got, shouldn't have one."  
  
    Bucky considered this. "But I could have a second chance anywhere," he said. "Doesn't have to be here."  
  
    Tony shrugged. "I told you, it's complicated." They sat without speaking for several minute, and Tony turned to see him again. "I understand," he said, "that Steve's been after you to get some counselling."  
  
    _How did he know that?_  
  
    It didn't seem likely that Steve would talk to Tony about something like that. Not something so personal. Even if Sam knew that Steve had been coaxing him to go, Sam wasn't a big fan of Tony in general, so it was unlikely that he had said anything either.  
  
    Bucky turned his empty shot glass in his hands. "How'd you know that?"  
  
    "It's a big house, people hear things."  
  
    _JARVIS_. Of course. JARVIS was loyal, first and foremost, to Tony. But had Tony asked, or had JARVIS volunteered the information? It was unnerving, either way.  
  
    "So," Tony went on, "any particular reason you're not taking him up on it?"  
  
    Bucky sighed, smiled faintly, and looked up at Tony. "It's complicated," he said.  
  
    Tony returned the smile in kind, sat up, and reached for a remote on the coffee table. "I get that," he said. "You like action movies?" he wondered.  
  
    Bucky stared a moment, puzzled by the non sequitur. "I'm a little behind on what's out there," he admitted.  
  
    "Well, you don't have to stay if you don't want to," Tony said. He gestured with the remote and the television flared to life. "But I'm gonna watch something a little mindless. Ever hear of a movie called Point Break?"  
  
    "No."  
  
    "It's a fun time. Doesn't require much thought." He shifted to get comfortable on the couch, swung his feet up to the coffee table, and fiddled with the remote. "You probably missed out on a few presidents. I'll fill you in as it goes along."  
  
    The growing discomfort in his head and in his gut had vanished. A little bewildered, Bucky gingerly sat back on the couch to watch.


End file.
